


Fêtes and Some Lodger

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [20]
Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch Fandom, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Awkwardness, Established Relationship, F/M, Fights, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Pregnancy, Roommates, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’ve never celebrated Thanksgiving before, as it’s one of those holidays Americans celebrate. It’s about food. That’s what I’ve learned from American TV shows. Americans gather around a table, eat too much rich food, watch their silly football games, and usually fight. </p><p>Or something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fêtes and Some Lodger

  
OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

“So, you going home for Thanksgiving?”

Pamela looked up from her paperwork (hooked another student for trying to kill her) to find the new IP standing next to her desk. 

“No. I wasn’t planing on it. It’s an eight hour drive and we only have two days,” Pamela said, looking back at the computer screen where she was detailing why her student had failed at life and shouldn’t be allowed to fly the plane ever again.  

(They’d allow him to continue. It was only his first time hooking, oddly enough. He claimed Pamela distracted him. She was unsure how she did this, as she was in the BACK of the plane and he couldn’t see her, only hear her, and she knew she didn’t have a voice that did things to people, but he flew like he’d never operated at T-6 before and it wasn’t his umpteenth flight.)

“Ah! So you’ll be around! Great!” 

Pamela glanced over at him, wondering why he sounded so happy. He was an odd guy, so maybe he was just thrilled about everything? 

“It’s been requested I invite you to dinner!”

“Huh?”

“Well, they informed me I needed a date,” he said, turning red and looking anywhere except Pamela. 

Horror flooded her veins. Pamela opened her mouth to decline as quickly as possible.

“NO!” he shouted, hands out in front of him motioning for her to cease trying to speak. “I know you’re dating Loki.” 

“Thomas.”

“Huh?”

“His name isn’t Loki, it’s Thomas.”

“Yes, well, you just need to come along and you’ll be on your own anyways,” he pushed on, looking a bit embarrassed. “It’ll be at Erik’s house. His wife is cooking her first Thanksgiving ever…mostly because she’s Swedish.”

“Who?”

Pamela had extra trouble keeping track of everyone in their flight because everyone had multiple names: first name, last name, and call signs (in some cases). 

“Erik,” the guy went on, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “The guy who had the solo party.”

“Oh,” Pamela said, nodding even though all she remembered about the solo party was the house it was held at. She’d dropped by for like five minutes just to do the whole stupid “traditional” solo ceremony. She’d forgotten all the stupid, random things done during pilot training— one being after you let your student solo, they give you a bottle of alcohol. And for some unknown reason at Vance, you also had to cut a tie to show how scared for his or her life you were while watching them fly solo from the ground.

Pamela was going to have a large collection of booze she wouldn’t drink by the end of her assignment and random bits of ties. 

“Chuck and his wife will be there and I think Alan and his wife— if she exists— are coming as well.”

“I’m sure she exists,” Pamela insisted. 

She had no idea who these people were, but knew the one named Alan was given a hard time because he didn’t wear a wedding ring (he lost it somewhere) and his wife never came to any squadron events. 

“Well, we’ll see on Thursday. You don’t have to bring anything,” the guy went on. 

Pamela ought to read his name tag and figure out his name. While she didn’t want to go as his “date,” she also hadn’t been looking forward to spending the holiday alone. 

“If you want, I guess you can, but evidently Alan’s imaginary wife bakes, so he’s got the dessert portion covered and between Britt and Jody, I think we’ve got everything else.”

“Alan’s the guy who always has cookies,” Pamela realized. 

“Yeah. I bet he makes them himself. Anyways, I can pick you up.”

“Don’t you live on base?”

The guy grimaced. “Yeah. I’m still in the base hotel. Housing here for a single guy sucks. How’d you find anything?”

“Well, uh, I bought a townhouse,” Pamela said, frowning. “There wasn’t much to choose from…”

“Hmmm,” he said, looking interested suddenly. “Well, I’ll pick you up, if that’s okay. If you’re coming. Sorry. You haven’t said either way.”

“I’ll go,” Pamela agreed. “Wasn’t really keen on spending the holiday alone.”

“Lo— I mean, Thomas isn’t coming over?”

Pamela snorted, looking back at the form she was filling out. “No. He’s in rehearsals for a play he’s doing this winter and he’s got some party thing to attend that Sunday. He’s also British, so he doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving.”

That didn’t mean Tom wasn’t fascinated by it. He’d been upset when she said she wasn’t doing anything. 

“How can you not do anything! You’re American! You must celebrate the holiday! Think of all the pudding you’re missing!” Tom had wailed over dramatically. (He’d been rather over dramatic since he’d landed back in the UK after his whirlwind _Thor_ tour and began to hunker down for his role in _Coriolanus_.) (And his obsession with pudding had increased trifold for unknown reasons.) 

“I dunno. Britt seems pretty excited,” the new IP said, smiling. 

Pamela made a leap and guessed Britt was the Swedish wife mentioned earlier. 

“So, give me your address and I’ll get you on Thursday. Oh, and let the others know we’ll have a nice round number for dinner,” he finished, pulling out his cell phone.

* * *

“I’m going to dinner.”

“Pardon?”

“I was invited to a Thanksgiving dinner and I’m going,” Pamela reported. “As a fake date.”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t know. Er, the guy is single, but knows I’m dating you, though he called you Loki, but everyone told him he needed a date, but I got the feeling he didn’t really want a date,” Pamela babbled, twisting her hair around her finger. 

It was late, for her and for Tom, but he’d called her anyways the moment he got in from rehearsals, which tended to run quite late as they got closer to opening night. 

“I’m not sure how I feel about this,” Tom admitted, his voice sounding a little unsure. “How do you feel?”

“Strange. It was kind of weird, but then again, he’s kind of weird.”

“Does he have a name?”

“I’m sure he’s got at least three or four, but I can’t remember any of them,” Pamela admitted. “I forgot to look at his name tag and I can’t remember if he’s got a call sign.”

“Do you have a call sign yet, dove?”

“No. And I never will,” Pamela grumbled. “I’m not a fighter pilot. If they do give me one, I will never answer to it.” 

Tom chuckled. “No, darling dove, of course you won’t.”

“He’s harmless,” Pamela said, going back to more pressing topic at hand. “I get this odd feeling…”

“What sort of odd feeling?”

“I’m not sure. He’s just strange. Maybe…I don’t know…he doesn’t like girls, so I’m safe because I’m taken?”

“You think he’s strange because he’s gay?”

“NO! He’s just strange due to his personality. I didn’t even think anything about his sexual orientation until now. Just now.”

Tom hummed. “Well, while I hate to cut this conversation short, I need to sleep. I’m worn thin.”

“But you love it.”

“I do,” Tom agreed. Pamela could tell by his tone, he was in heaven. “Only thing that would make it better was if you were here.”

“I’ll be there after Christmas,” Pamela assured. 

“I know, dove,” Tom said. “I look forward to it. Emma assured me she will entertain you whilst I’m working.”

“I do not need to be entertained, Thomas.”

Tom laughed. “I know, cinnamon, I know. I just feel horrid you’re coming to see me and I won’t see you because of work.”

“I’m coming to see your work.”

“I know, I know.”

“Go to bed, Thomas.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“I’m not your mum.”

“Oh, I know, don’t get me wrong. But, only Mum tells me to go to bed.”

“Fine, don’t go to bed.”

“Fine. I won’t.” There was a long pause before, “I’m going to bed.”

“Okay. Good night, Thomas.”

“Sweet dreams, darling dove.” 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

I’ve never celebrated Thanksgiving before, as it’s one of those holidays Americans celebrate. It’s about food. That’s what I’ve learned from American TV shows. Americans gather around a table, eat too much rich food, watch their silly football games, and usually fight. 

Or something. I know a little more about Thanksgiving than Door does about Boxing Day (which she admitted she thought was about throwing out boxes the day after Christmas). 

I loathe Thanksgiving.

It was a perfectly lovely American holiday that never bothered me much till I found myself in O’Hare the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving.  

This place is a complete, utter zoo. It’s taken me almost an hour to get out of the airport from the baggage claim. Door’s sent me numerous texts, all each in all caps, meaning she’s not a happy clam. Why she insisted on picking me up AT the airport is beyond me. I’m not a complete idiot. I could have found the Kiss ’N’ Go thingy her father mentioned. 

I’ve traveled on holidays before, but this is madness. 

There are like twenty 4Runners out here. Actually, I think the entire Chicago region decided to drive to O’Hare and hang out at International Arrivals— which makes no sense. Domestic Arrivals, yes, that makes perfect sense, but seriously, what are all these people— 

“BENNYDUCK! Get over here, BANNERSTATCH!”

I startle, looking to the right to see Door waving frantically from over the roof of her 4Runner. I know I am wearing a horrified expression on my face— and not because she called me Bennyduck Bannerstatch. She could fall any moment. Luckily, the moment Door knows she’s got my attention she gets back into the car (after flipping off someone who honked at her). 

I fight my way over and get into the SUV as quickly as humanly possible. I don’t even bother trying to get my suitcase into the boot. 

“I hate you,” is the first thing she says to me as I fight with the seatbelt. (Let’s just say my legs, my suitcase, and I do not fit in the front seat very well.)

“You didn’t need to come get me.”

“Yes, I did and I still hate you,” she mumbles, glaring at me before she honks her horn and somehow manages to get into the flow of traffic to get out of airport. 

I remain silent as she drives (she does not remain silent and let out quite a bit of colorful language) until we’re far enough away from the airport she’s calmed down a little and is less likely to inform me she hates me.

“So, besides feeling fugacious hatred towards me, how have you been?” I casually ask, eyeing her. 

She looks quite becoming. Then again, I always think she looks wonderful. She into her second trimester now, fourteen weeks. She fails to appear all that pregnant, even though she claims she has a visible bump now. 

“I’m just great,” she says, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “Just peachy. My mother’s been just grrrrrrrr-ATE. Especially since I put my foot down and said you’re staying in my room.”

I cringe. Her mother is still on the war path to get us married before the baby arrives. 

“Even my grandparents don’t care, but she does,” Door goes on, jerking the car. I grip the handle on the door as she careens around a corner. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“It’ll be fine.”

She glares at me before she goes back to driving, shooting abuse at her fellow drivers.

It will be a very long day. 

* * *

“I hate being pregnant! It’s like having a never ending period!” Door rants. 

I sit on the brand new queen size bed that is now located in her childhood room. Her brother recently bought a home and moved himself out, taking with him the state of the art sound system, oversized TV, his over abundance of sports memorabilia, and pirate flag. Door’s room looks a bit more like how I imaged it did when she was growing up, only with more wallpaper showing. (I doubt she left much of it showing as she detests it. She’s let me know about ten time since I sat down.) 

“You got the cramps, you got the exhaustion, the achy boobs, bloating— all that’s missing is the bloody mess!”

Too much information.

“Oh, you’ve also got the added bonus of getting fat and throwing up! And hemorrhoids! Did you know pregnant women get hemorrhoids! Seriously. Why on earth does ANYONE get pregnant. It’s the WORST thing in the world. WORST than this WALLPAPER!”

Door has been ranting (about the wallpaper, being pregnant, the weather, her army of interns…) since she dragged me upstairs and away from her frosty mother. Her father greeted me like I was the best thing since sliced bread, but Mrs Judoc simply gave me a cool smile, asked me about my flight, and left me standing in the front hall with my suitcase, an irate Door and an apologetic Roger Judoc. 

“I want to go to bed,” Door moans, flopping down next to me on the bed. Her shirt rides up a bit and I stare at the expanse of pale stomach exposed to me. I can make out a slight swell, but it’s no where as big as she was making it out to be. I want to touch it, but refrain due to her mood. She might bite my hand off.

“None of my stupid pants fit right,” she complains, tugging at the waistband of her jeans, which are snapped and zipped. Lying flat, I can’t tell if they are too tight or not.  

“Are you sure?”

“YES!” she says, trying to kick me. She fails. “They fit, but they’re just freaking uncomfortable. God, I’m fourteen weeks pregnant, I ought to be wearing maternity clothes, but they are too big, don’t stay up, or just are fracking annoying.”

“Well, I honestly don’t care what you wear,” I offer. “You look gorgeous at the moment.”

She punches me. “I have horrible skin. Side effect of this stupid whole bringing new life into the world.”

Door sits up and throws herself at me, suddenly bawling. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she sobs, slightly alarming me. “I love the baby, but I hate being pregnant. I want to eat again and not throw up. I want to wear clothes that fit me. I want my mother to stop treating me like I’m twelve. I’ve got drapetomania and hate it.”

I gather her into my arms, dragging her into my lap. She quickly arranges herself in my lap and clings to me. I rub slow circles on her back. 

“The shop is a mess,” she goes on. “Or whatever it is. We’ve been working like crazy to get all the bags we’re likely to sell during Black Friday and Cyber Monday and the holiday season. Did you know I’ve actually hired sewers? I wasn’t even aware of it.”

“Yes, Mitch told me,” I tell her softly, rubbing circles on her back. “I thought you could use some more aid other than your army of interns with strange names.”

Door gives a watery chuckle into my chest. Her hand comes up and she clutches at the fabric of my shirt, pulling herself closer. 

“This whole thing…is surreal,” she mumbles. “I woke up today and wondered how this was my life. I mean, this kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me. Nothing happens to me.”

She pushes herself away from me and looks me in the eye, both hands now fisting the front of my shirt.

“Nothing happens to me. I mean, yeah, stuff happens to me, but not stuff someone would write a freaking novel about. I’m boring, Ben. I am totally uninspiring.”

“I don’t find you dull. Nor does Mark. And I think you amuse Tom greatly.”

“I know Tom Hiddleston,” she breathes, sounding in awe of this factoid. She shakes me suddenly as she shouts, “I KNOW Tom Muthafracking Hiddelston!”

“And you’re dating Benedict Cumberbatch,” I murmur, reaching up and cupping her face. The action makes her stop shaking me. Those wide blue-blue eyes lock on my own and she stares at me with slight awe. 

“Oh, yeah” she faintly says.

I don’t care what Door believes, I find her utterly lucent and beautiful— even if her face is covered in tear tracks, her nose is red, and her eyes are puffy. 

“You’re mine,” I remind her, grinning a little. I close the space between our lips and kiss her. 

God, I’ve missed her.

She melts into me and I move my hands off her face and into her loose, wild hair. I tangle my fingers in the curls and refuse to let her get too far when she pulls away from me to breathe. Our noses bump and she sucks in quite a bit of air.

“You are impossible.”

“No, I can’t say I am,” I chuckle. “I’m very possible.”

“True. Tom’s impossible.”

“True. He’s very impossible. He is also a huge nerd.”

“And you’re not?”

“No. I’m a dork. Quite different.”

“Nerd.”

“Dork.”

She leans in and kisses me again. 

I would argue with her further, but she’s kissing me. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

“So, this is your house?”

His name was Ryan, he was on his second assignment just like Pamela, and he was originally form Michigan. (She had no idea where in Michigan, but at least she remembered that much.) 

“Yeah. Not much to look at, I know,” Pamela said, wondering if she should invite him inside or just exit the house.

“Well, it looks nice,” he insisted, craning his head to look over the top of her head. 

Yeah, the blasted guy was tall. Not that it was hard to be taller than Pamela, as she was only five foot three.

“Oh, are you fixing up the kitchen?”

“I’m planning on fixing up the whole place,” Pamela admitted, turning around to look at the cabinet doors sitting in the family room. “I figured with my long weekend I’d sand the cabinets down to get them ready for painting.”

“You’re doing it all on your own? I could help,” Ryan quickly offered. 

“My dad is going to come to town one weekend to help me paint the cabinets, but he told me to sand the doors before he gets here. He’s coming in December.”

“Oh, are you hosting Christmas?”

“No. He’s just coming to get me,” Pamela explained. “I’m flying to London from Denver right after Christmas.”

“Ah…cool,” Ryan said, backing off a bit and jerking his head behind him. “Your chariot awaits.” 

* * *

The house that was hosting the Swedish-made Thanksgiving feast was an old house, much older than the retro townhouse Pamela lived in. It was ancient. (By Pamela’s standards. Likely by Tom’s standards it was brand new as it was built in 1919.) 

“So, you are single too?” Britt asked as Pamela sat in the kitchen with the blonde woman. Britt was what one thought of when they thought of Swedish women: tall, blonde, and blue-eyed. She was also insanely young, as she was only twenty-three.

Pamela realized she was almost thirty and felt older than dirt sitting in the same room as this bright, lively, young woman. 

“Well, I’m not married,” Pamela hedged. “I’m dating someone, but he lives in another country.”

“Oh! What country!”

“England.”

“Ah, I met Erik in England! When he was stationed there. I didn’t know much English at the time, but was working as a nanny. I thought he was British!”

She laughed.

Erik was defiantly American and would never pass as English. 

“I couldn’t tell! I didn’t understand,” Britt went on, turning to unload something from the oven. “I must start the carrots. Erik hates vegetables. With guests, I can make them and he can’t complain.”

She grinned, showing off her very white teeth. 

“So, you like flying?”

“Yes. I’ve always wanted to be a pilot,” Pamela said. 

“Oh! I have no idea what I want to do,” Britt laughed. “Still! I went to England at eighteen as a gap year and never left! Well, I left, obviously, but I didn’t go back to school as I thought I would. Well, I go to school now. Not much choice in Enid, but I go to school. I take English classes and some others.”

Pamela dumbly nodded. 

“So, what does your boyfriend do? How did you meet?”

“He’s an actor,” Pamela began. “We met, well, uh…before I started PIT. I took a trip to Europe that…went pretty bad. I got stranded in London after missing my flight home and my friend knew this guy who lived in London. She asked him to come get me from where ever the heck I was.”

Britt paused in what she was doing, looking very interested in Pamela’s story. 

“Anyways, so this guy showed up. He kind of looks like an elf, but Door— my friend— told me not to call him that and of course I did. He didn’t seem to mind. I was so tired and exhausted at this point, I didn’t really register I was acting like a total idiot.”

Britt giggled. “Yes. Travel going wrong is never good. So, this man, he was a friend of a friend? This Door?”

Pamela nodded. “Yeah. Her real name is Dorothea, but she hates that and wants to be called Door. Anyways, the guy had a spare room and I was stranded and didn’t want to spend another night on a bench.”

“You spent nights on benches?” 

“Yeah. In France. But, anyways, so I went to this guy’s flat and there was this other guy sleeping on the couch. He had his back to me, so all I saw was the back of his head. The guy, who is named Benedict, told me not to worry about the guy asleep on the couch as he’d been dead to the world since he’d arrived to visit Benedict some six hours before. 

“All I wanted was a shower and to go to sleep, so Benedict showed me to the guest room, apologized a million times for the fact he had to get up really early to go to work, and then left me to go about my business.”

“The guy asleep on the couch became your boyfriend, didn’t he?” Britt guessed, wearing a huge smile. “How cute! So, you met him that morning, yes?”

“Yeah. I woke him up trying to figure out how to use Benedict’s coffee maker. He came into the kitchen and, well, he was pretty cute.”

Britt gave her a knowing smile before turning back to her carrots. 

“So, did he offer to show you around London before you had to leave?”

“Yeah. I spent the whole day with him not knowing who he was.”

“What? He did not tell you his name?” Britt asked, whirling around to stare at Pamela in amazement. 

“He told me his name was Tom and he was an actor.”

Britt frowned. 

“I didn’t bother to get his last name, he didn’t look familiar to me, and the only thing he told me he’d done was an action-hero movie where he played Loki.”

Britt cocked her head to the side. “Loki? The God of Mischief? There was a movie about Loki?”

“Well, yeah, kind of.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“He was in _Thor, The Avengers,_ and _Thor: The Dark World._ ” 

Britt looked confused. “I have never heard of those. Were they popular?”

“I think so. Most people know who he is.”

“Who is he?”

“Tom Hiddleston.”

Britt stared blankly at Pamela.

And at that moment, Pamela almost wanted to hug the pretty Swedish girl simply because she had no clue who Tom Hiddleston was, nor had she picked up on the fact Pamela knew a British guy named Benedict. 

“Sorry. I’m not up on actors,” Britt laughed. 

“I don’t care. I’d only heard of Tom Hiddleston because of Door,” Pamela admitted. “She’s been obsessed with him since 2002.”

“He’s been around that long?”

“Just small roles. I don’t think he really made a name for himself till he was in _Thor_. I’m not sure. I, well, uh…”

“What?” Britt asked, dumping the carrots into a pot and putting the lid on. “Oh! Did you see him in something your friend showed you and like him?”

Pamela felt her cheeks color. 

“You did!”

“I liked his hair!” Pamela explained quickly. “He had this great, curly, blond hair in _Wallander._ ”

“That’s Swedish!” Britt crowed. “He was in that?”

“The British version of it,” Pamela explained. “I just liked his hair. He was Hair Boy. He doesn’t have that hair any more. I had no idea who he was till he followed me on Twitter.”

“Oh, you two have Twitter!” Britt exclaimed. “I love Twitter!”

“I hardly use it,” Pamela said. “I’m sure he only asked because he…I’m not sure. I guess he didn’t want to ask me for my actual number? Seeing as we’d known one another less than twenty-four hours and I was leaving.”

“Oh, you only had twenty-four hours together?” Britt sighed, looking a little sappy. 

“No. I wound up staying in town for a few more days,” Pamela said, suddenly becoming interested in the tabletop. “Thomas was rather persistent.”

“He was?”

Pamela heard a stool pull out and knew Britt had joined her at the butcher block island. And unlike any past Air Force wives Pamela had met and been forced to socialize with, Pamela knew Britt was interested in the story for the actual story, not simply because it stared Tom Hiddleston, someone famous.

“Yeah. Benedict, who is also an actor, dragged me to the set of this TV show he was filming the next day and Thomas showed up with a cup a tea. He dragged me off for the rest of the day, as Benedict was busy filming.”

“Awwww.”

“And somehow convinced me to attend an award show with him in LA,” Pamela admitted. 

“Oh?”

Pamela nodded. “I hate awards shows. And premiers. And most of the promotion crap actors have to do. And filming. God, that’s boring.”

Britt giggled. “Has Thomas seen you fly? Or been in town yet?”

“He’s never seen me at work,” Pamela lamented. She felt something stir in her chest at the thought of Tom seeing her fly, of showing him what she did for a living and loved. “I’ve never actually seen Thomas film. I just went that one day with Benedict and spent most of it channeling a popsicle.”

Britt giggled again. “So, you see him much? Thomas, I mean. Not your friend’s friend.”

“Not enough.”

“Awwww.”

* * *

Another couple showed up an hour after Pamela and Ryan had arrived armed with food. When a gangly tall guy with a tiny, pregnant woman showed up with a few pies and cranberries, Pamela was sure she could figure out who was who— even if she only knew the husband’s names. 

Another half hour saw everyone around the rather large dining room table eating to their heart’s content.

“So, you found a place to live yet, Ryan?” Alan asked.

“No. I can’t stand any of the apartments I’ve seen so far. What I really want is to find a roommate. Know anyone who’d like someone who can cook?”

“Pamela can’t cook!” Britt exclaimed.

Oh why had Pamela mentioned that to her?

“And she lives alone!”

Pamela gave an uncomfortable smile, then looked at her food filled plate.

“Wouldn’t that work out great? He could watch your house when you visit London!”

Pamela stared at Britt.

“Bunny Boo, what are you doing?” Erik asked, looking bemused and embarrassed. 

Most of the people in the room looked confused. 

Ryan laughed uncomfortably and said, “I’m not sure how her boyfriend would feel about that.”

“Her boyfriend is the nicest man on the planet,” said the wife of the lone Navy pilot in their flight. (For some reason they had Navy IPs even though Vance no longer trained Navy pilot students.) “I’m pretty sure he’d be fine with it. Tom doesn’t get jealous, does he? He doesn’t seem like the sort to turn into a jealous rage monster or anything.”

“I don’t know,” Pamela admitted, trying to picture Tom jealous. It wasn’t working. 

She clutched her fork, glancing around the table till her eyes landed on the rather quiet pregnant woman. (She was channeling one of those utterly perfect pregnant women— still thin and simply looked like she’d stuck a little bag of flour or something under her adorable dress.) The woman appeared bewildered, eyes darting between Ryan and Pamela. Her husband, Alan, leaned over and whispered something in her ear. The pregnant woman’s eyes went wide and she stared openly at Pamela.

Pamela hated Alan. 

“It would work out fine! Ryan could feed Pamela and Pamela provides him a room!” Britt exclaimed, oblivious to the tension in the room.

“Britt, do you even know if she has a room for Ryan?” Erik asked. 

“Of course she has one,” Britt insisted, finally looking at her husband. “They don’t make one bedroom houses here.”

Ryan looked a combination of uncomfortable and hopeful. 

Pamela had no clue what she wanted to do or how to respond to the situation. She wasn’t sure she wanted a roommate, but then again, she was hardly ever home. She felt like she didn’t live there and it wasn’t worth the money she paid monthly to have the home in her name. 

In the back of her mind a tiny voice said the extra money would be nice. And she truly did hate being on her own. She’d had a roommate all through college and pretty much lived with Door and Jason because she hated that tiny apartment in Del Rio. Coming back from the missions while she was living in Seattle was a let down because there was never anyone to greet her, other than dust bunnies. It never felt good to be home, so she tried not to be there. (Going so far as to escape to Europe for two weeks just to avoid the empty apartment.) (Granted, it also used up some of her leave, which she had a lot of, but it was mostly to avoid being home.)

Pamela avoided being home.

Wow. She’d never realized she hated living alone.

“I don’t want to put you on the spot,” Ryan was busy saying while Pamela had her light bulb moment. “I mean, you don’t have a whole house. You live in a townhouse, so I can understand—”

“Do you have a lawn mower?”

Ryan blinked at her. Heck, the whole table blinked at her. 

“Yeah. Why?”

“I don’t. I hired a service for the time I needed before the grass went into winter hibernation or whatever grass does in the winter,” Pamela explained.

Pamela was seriously considering this. Yeah, Ryan was strange. Yeah, she hardly knew him. Yeah, he was a guy and besides Jason she’d never lived with a guy before. It couldn’t be that different than living with Door…she was what Jason insisted living with a guy was like. (She was not a neat person. She left destruction in her wake. Jason had once commented the only difference was she never left the seat up on the toilet, which was fine with him as he always put the whole thing down, as he had a great fear of his toothbrush finding its way into the toilet.)

And the Navy Wife was right. Tom wouldn’t be mad, upset, or likely jealous. He was Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston, the nicest gentleman on the planet. He left sunshine and lollypops in his wake. 

Ryan stared at Pamela, dumbfounded. 

“You’ll have to speak to Thomas. He likely won’t like the idea of strange man living with me, but if you talk to him, it’ll be okay,” Pamela assured, pushing some carrots around on her plate. “We’ll have to draw up a contract or something, but as soon as we do that and you speak to Thomas, you’re welcome to move right in.”

Now, Ryan looked as if he’d been hit with a car. 

Pamela glanced around at the others, who all looked slightly thunderstruck— except Britt, who was beaming. 

“I, uh, well, uh,” Ryan stumbled, staring at Pamela with his mouth gaping open between utterances. 

“Do you come with kitchen stuff? Because at the moment, the cabinets are kind of out of commission. Then again, I only really own a few pots and pans. Oh, and dishes for four people.”

“I have a lot of stuff,” Ryan admitted. “I did notice your house was kind of empty.”

“Yeah. Well, I didn’t really live in my apartment in Del Rio, I was hardly home when I lived in Seattle…and I haven’t had time to buy much since I bought the house.” 

Pamela’s house looked like a college student lived there. All her homes since she graduated from college looked as if a college student lived in them. She had almost no furniture to speak of and what she did have was the bare basics. 

“See, it works!” Britt said, bringing attention back to herself. “Ryan has all the stuff Pamela’s home lacks! And Pamela has the home Ryan lacks!”

“When you drop me off after dinner, I’ll give you a tour,” Pamela went on, for some reason liking the idea more and more. 

Ryan cleared his throat, turned red, and said, “Okay. Yeah. Good. Oh, thanks. Yeah.”

Pamela looked at him for a moment before nodding and asking an inane question about football she knew would rile up Navy Pilot and Erik. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Benedict_

Dinner was an utter disaster. 

I have never witnessed two women fight as Door and her mother do. They don’t row like normal people. They do not yell, they don’t cuss one another out, nor do they seem to loose their tempers. Instead, they simply bicker in such an uncomfortable manner everyone else in the room wants to crawl under the table or exit stage right. 

The entire meal was uncomfortable. Roger tried to steer the conversation away from marriage or the baby, but failed each time thanks to his wife. The grandparents (Janis and Charlie Judoc) tried to do the same, but failed as well. David simply shoved food into his mouth at top speed and left the table after two minutes to watch football. (Why do Americans call that game football? Most of the major action has to do with throwing the ball, not kicking it like proper football.) 

“You know, Martha, if you want this young man to marry into this family, you’re doing a terrible job at convincing him,” Charlie pointed out, glancing at me. “He looks utterly mortified.”

“He should be,” Mrs Judoc muttered under her breath.

Oh, I was, but not likely for the reason Mrs Judoc wanted. 

“You know, I wouldn’t want to marry me either,” Door proclaimed, roughly standing up and storming out of the dining room. 

“Pardon me,” I excused myself, half worried, half thankful. I began to pick up my plate, but was stopped by Roger who simply indicated I ought to follow his daughter to escape the worst family gathering I’ve ever attended. 

Of course, I might have wanted to stay at the table, as when I found Door she was sobbing and raging in her room, throwing clothes around and ranting she was leaving, never to return.

So, of course I said something really idiotic.

“We could just get married.”

Door stopped what she was doing, stared at me as if she’d never seen me before, and threw a lamp at me.

I’m pretty sure Karon is going to kill me when I arrive in LA. My face got to know the lamp. And then broke the lamp. Who knew Door had an arm on her? 

“I see you’ve taken refuge outside.”

I glance over my shoulder to see Roger. He joins me at the end of their driveway where I’ve been standing for the past twenty minutes smoking (even though I am trying to quit). 

(It has not been going very well.) 

“Sorry,” I apologize, snubbing the cigarette out quickly.

“Don’t apologize to me,” he insists, shoving a bag of frozen peas onto my face where the lamp and my face met. 

“Thank you,” I mutter, pressing the frozen bag to the damaged. “I think my publicist will kill me if it swells much more.”

Roger snorted. “Yeah, well, I know that after bottling up her anger, Door suddenly becomes Randy Johnson. What’s shocking is she missed her target.”

“I’m pretty sure she hit her target,” I assure, not bothering to inquire who the hell Randy Johnson is. Likely one of those…American sports figures. Likely someone who throws things. Maybe American footballs.

“I don’t think so,” Roger slowly says, rocking back and forth on his feet. “She doesn’t aim at people. Usually the wall is her target.”

“I said something really stupid,” I sigh. “Really stupid.”

Roger snorts. “Yeah, I heard. While I’d love to see you two crazy kids married, I know neither of you is at the right point to do that. You’ve got your whirlwind career and Door’s got her business based here. It’s taking off.”

I feel like shite. (And not just because I took a lamp to the face.) 

“Also, I’d hate for her to go off and live in London,” Roger admits, looking up at the night sky. “I’m kind of selfish. I want her here.” 

I smile at him, shoving my free hand into my coat pocket. “I’d love her in London, but I don’t think that’d work for the best. She’ll need a support system— something she won’t have in London. She’d mostly be on her own, horridly.” 

“I doubt it. That other actor lives there and your parents reside somewhere around there, right?”

“Yes. Though, they do spent quite a bit of time at their country home,” I inform him. 

“Try to convince me your mother wouldn’t move next door if Door and the grandkid moved into your apartment?”

I chuckle, as he’s right. Mum would move herself next door in order to help Door out if needed.  

“I respect Door’s choice, though,” Roger goes on. “I’m sure you do as well, even if you’re not wholeheartedly on the wagon.”

I stare at my feet (well with the one eye not covered by a frozen bag of peas). “I’m not ready for that step at the moment.”

“But, you’d do it,” Roger said, sounding a little too knowing for my taste. 

He is right, of course. 

“Someday, I will,” I hear myself saying. 

“I have no doubt. Since I first met you, you’ve been in love with her,” is the matter of fact statement Roger makes. 

I feel myself blush, glad for the lack of light at the end of the driveway. And the freezing cold bag of peas on my face. 

“Jason was never in love with her that way,” Roger quietly continues. “I’m sure in some sense he loved my girl, but he didn’t look at her like you do. I was scared when she was a little girl of some guy looking at her like that, but after Jason, I realized it was a good thing you looked at her the way I always dreaded.”

Silence falls between the two of us, the only noises coming from nature and the cars whizzing by on the nearby motorways. 

“Alright, I’ve embarrassed myself and you enough for one night. Why don’t you go inside and try to pry Door out of her room. We’re having pie,” Roger said, turning and going back into the house. 

I remain in the driveway for a few more minutes before I follow.

* * *

“Door, open up. Please. I apologize. I won’t ever utter the ‘M’ word again,” I repeat for the hundredth time. 

I love Door. 

She refuses to open her bedroom door. I’ve been sitting out here trying to get her to open it for the past ten minutes. In those past ten minutes I’ve accepted Roger is right and I love that infuriating woman on the other side. It’s so simple, it actually scares me. 

I love that woman on the other side. She infuriates me, fascinates me, and completes me. She is mine and I belong to her. I know I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me any of this. I do not need society to approve. 

I love her. End of story.  

I never imaged myself being the kind of bloke who fell in love without realizing it. Or as quickly as I did. I haven’t even known the woman on the other side of the door for a year and I love her. I know I’ll love her till I die. I cannot explain why I know this, I simply know it. I cannot pinpoint when I fell in love with Dorothea Z. Judoc, but I cannot imagine not loving her. 

Maybe I ought to tell her this?

The door opens and I fall backwards into the room. I look up to find an exhausted Door looming over me, glowering. Her face goes blank the moment she sees the damage left over from my meeting with the lamp. (It look better than it did before the bag of peas, but still…it’s not exactly my usual mug.) 

“I love you,” I inform her from the ground, staring up at her. 

She blinks at me. “I threw a lamp at you.”

“I still love you.”

“I threw a lamp at you,” she repeats, like I’m a twat for not realizing I cannot love her because she chucked a light fixture at me. 

“I noticed that, if you can believe it, but I’m not all that bothered.”

“You’ve got a cut on your face and your zygomatic is bruised. OMG. I damaged Sherlock’s cheekbone.” 

I push myself up to my elbows and study her while she backs up till she hits the bed and sits down hard. 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. You didn’t mean to hit me.”

She’s completely panicked. “I threw a lamp at you, Benedict. A LAMP! I threw it at you!”

“Your father assured me you tend to throw things whilst angry.”

“I THREW A LAMP AT YOU!”

“Yes, yes, you threw a lamp at me,” I say, pushing myself to sit up properly. “You’ve been dealing with a lot and you bottled up your anger. Something was bound to get thrown.”

“I threw a LAMP AT YOU.”

“If you say that one more time, I might throw one at you.”

“You should.”

“You look much to horrified for me to throw a lamp at you.”

“You’d never throw a lamp at me,” Door whispers, looking if possible more appalled by her actions. “I…I…I’ve never thrown anything at anyone before. Or thrown something that large.”

“I did provoke you by saying the wrong thing at an unsuitable moment,” I say, getting to my feet. 

“And yet you still love me,” she mutters. “I never threw a lamp at Jason.”

“What did you throw at Jason?”

“A few dog toys,” Door admits. “Just in his general direction. I think I only hit him with a bra once.”

“I do not want to know.”

“It didn’t fit,” she says, ignoring me completely. “After we got married, I gained a bunch of weight. None of my jeans fit. I’d go to work, come home, put on my stretchy pj bottoms, so I didn’t realize till almost five months after I’d finally gotten a job that none of my old clothes fit. I had to buy work clothes, as my first job didn’t require me to wear actual proper work clothing, so I didn’t really notice my old clothes didn’t fit. I was so…mad. My boobs always hurt, my eyes were always on fire, and now my jeans didn’t fit.”

“You’re eyes were on fire?”

“I had a massive eye infection,” she explains, waving her hand at me. “So, I had a major break down in the closet and chucked one of the bras at his head.”

Part of me is glad that I missed the chaos when her chest expanded after she got pregnant. She did inform me she went up almost two cup sizes and it was painful. (She doesn’t hold back when she’s in pain, I’ve come to discover. Should make delivery interesting…) 

“It wasn’t his fault the bras didn’t fit. Or the jeans. Well, I guess it kind of was because he was feeding me unbalanced meals, but that’s not the point. I never threw something…substantial at anyone.”

“What about Chris?” I ask quietly, leaning against the wall across from her. I’d like to sit on the bed, but I’m not sure I’d be welcomed.

She glances up at me from where she’d been staring into space and her eyes go wide. 

“Oh.”

“Yes?”

“I threw the complete works of Shakespeare at him,” she whispers, putting her hand over her mouth. 

Lovely! The people she loves, she throws heavy objects at.

“I’m insulted. I only ranked a lamp.”

“It was handy!” she defends herself, then looks mortified. 

 I sigh. “Well, now that I know you tend to throw things whilst angered, I will wear a helmet.”

“I’m horrible.”

The water works begin. I give up the battle to remain away from her. I gather her up in my arms as I sit down next to her on the bed. She tries to push me away, but fails miserably. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Hush,” I murmur. 

“All I do is cry on you,” she mutters into my chest. “I threw a lamp at you and you joke about helmets.”

“I’ll duck from now on.”

“I shouldn’t be throwing things at you!” she exclaims, pushing me away with force I wasn’t sure she was capable of till she chucked the lamp at my head. “You should be angry at me! I threw a heavy object at you! I hurt you! That’s…that’s…that’s…abuse!”

I stare at her. “Did you want to hurt me?”

“No.”

“Do you wish to hurt me?”

“No.”

“You’ve realized you shouldn’t throw lamps at people, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do you plan to try to reign in your anger or deal with it better in the future so you don’t throw heavy objects at people you care for?”

“Love.”

“Pardon?”

“I loved Chris,” she says, her blue eyes burning into mine. “I love you.”

I smile softly at her. 

“I had to throw a lamp at you to realize that,” she says, looking once more horrified at the thought. 

“Yes, well, after you threw the complete works of Shakespeare— which I will be telling Tom you did and he will be furious— at Chris, did you ever throw something at him again?”

“No. Then…I only really got mad enough to throw things once. And it was all Shakespeare’s fault I was mad in the first place. Stupid, confusing man,” she grumbles. 

I quietly chuckle. 

“Ben?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“As I am, darling. I should never had said what I did.”

“I…I’d…well…next time just leave me alone when I’m upset,” Door mutters. “I usually run out of steam after I chuck things around. I really should stop throwing things. It’s not healthy.”

“Nor is bottling up your anger,” I softly say. 

“I’m sorry,” she says into my neck. “I’m so sorry.”

I feel tears on my neck. I close my own eyes. I ought to be livid she threw a lamp at me. I ought to be a little upset that she might chuck something heavy at me again in the future, yet, I cannot bring myself. She’s upset for the both of us. 

“I know, love, I know.”

“Why not, though?”

“Pardon?”

“Why not get married?” she asks my neck. 

“It’s not the right moment,” I tell her. I close my eyes, wondering why I’m doing this, then remember. “Marriage is not the answer in our situation. I know you wish not to rush into it, so we best to get to know one another before we marry. We need time.”

“But, I love you.”

“And I you, but marriage isn’t something you rush into. Didn’t you learn that lesson already?”

“Yes,” she whispers, clinging to me. “But…I don’t like it when you’re not here. Or I’m not there with you.”

“Darling, even if we were married, I’d still be away quite often.”

She sighs. “Why to I fall for guys who are never around?”

“Character flaw?” I try to joke.

She shakes her head. “You’re right, though. I’m not ready to be married again. I think the topic should be off the table till after the baby shows up.”

“I agree,” I tell her. “And, even if I am very busy, I will try to be here with you as much as I can be here. Before and after the baby shows up.”

 I feel Door nod against my neck. “I don’t like you’re missing so much. Or will miss so much. You’re going to be doing _Sherlock_ promotion when I have my mid-pregnancy ultrasound and I find out the sex.”

I hold her tighter, as she’s right. Her appointment falls when I have to be in London for the first showing of “The Empty Hearse.” 

“Then, can I ask you to wait?”

She pulls back a little and looks up at me with a confused expression on her face. 

“You’re planning on coming to London after the holidays, right? When Pamela comes to visit Tom?”

“No,” she admits. “I don’t think I can afford—”

“Oops. I ruined my Christmas present to you.” I feign embarrassment. 

“You’re serious?”

“No, I’m Benedict.”

I get a small smile for my lame joke.

“I knew I was going to miss it and already set up the appointment at the clinic we visited the last time you were in London. I know you’ll be busy with after holiday sales, but your father assured me you’d be able to get away till after the New Year.”

“Oh,” Door breathes out. 

“So, if you can wait a few weeks, then we can find out together,” I quietly say. 

She nods. 

“Good. I’m glad you agree.”

“You’re too good to me,” she mutters. “I threw a lamp at you.”

“Only because you love me. If you didn’t, you’d have thrown a pillow.”

“Those hurt. Trust me. Davy used to throw pillows at me.”

“He also used to smother you with pillows and dement your glasses,” I remind her.

She buries her face in her hands. “He told you that?”

“That he did. He was more than willing to share many embarrassing sister stories today,” I airily say. 

Door groans, resting her head on my shoulder. 

“So, I hear there’s pie downstairs. Something called pumpkin.”

“Oh yeah. You guys don’t do pumpkins over there,” Door grumbles. “Weirdoes.”  

OoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

“So, I think I got a roommate.”

“You think you got a roommate?”

“Yeah. At dinner the other night,” Pamela said, avoiding looking at Tom on the laptop screen sitting on her desk in her bedroom. 

“So, you went to dinner and came back with a roommate?”

“No. He hasn’t moved in yet.”

“He?”

“Yeah. Well, most people who are single are guys in the Air Force. I’m kinda rare,” Pamela said, drawing patterns on her desktop while still not looking at Tom. While the whole roommate thing had seemed like a great idea while she was at dinner with Britt beaming at her, now that she was speaking to Tom it seemed like an insane idea. 

“Who is he?”

“The guy who asked me to go to the dinner,” Pamela admitted. “I told him I couldn’t really give him an answer as you’d like to speak to him befo—” 

“Of course I would!” Tom burst out.

Pamela glanced up as she’d never heard him use that tone before. He looked furious, an expression she’d only ever seen on a TV screen before and never directed at a real person. 

“You do realize if you got a female roommate I’d be fine with it,” Pamela offered.

Tom stared at her blankly for a moment before he looked away from the screen. “Yes. I do know this.”

He struggled with himself for a long, drawn out moment before speaking again. 

“Why do you feel like you need a roommate?”

“I’m lonely.”

Tom’s face rearranged itself. He went from furious to downright shattered in a mere second. 

“I don’t like living alone,” Pamela went on. “When I was stationed in Seattle, it wasn’t that hard as I was hardly ever there, but here…while I know I’m not home a whole bunch with my twelve hour work days, I still come home to an empty place every, single night.”

“Oh, cinnamon, why didn’t you say something?”

“Why? It’s not like you can move in with me, Thomas,” Pamela pointed out. “Your life is in London. You’ve got that play. You can’t drop everything to live here just so I’m not lonely and if you did, you’d still never be here because you’d either be off promoting movies or working in London.”

Tom frowned deeply. “Darling dove, what you say is true, though it breaks my heart.”

Pamela rolled her eyes.

“It’s true. I’d be there in a heart beat if I could.”

“I know. Ryan’s not a bad guy and he knows about you. And I will never be interested in Ryan, so don’t even think about that,” Pamela warned, getting back onto a topic that hopefully wouldn’t cause Tom to spout off more romantic mush. 

“I must speak to him,” Tom insisted. “I know it’s rather old fashion and chauvinist of me, but I wish to make sure he’s a proper gentlemen.”

“I know. I told him that.”

Tom still did not look pleased, but nodded his agreement. 

“It’ll be fine. He can cook. He’ll feed me.”

Tom looked as if he was trying hard not to chuckle, but failed. “Yes, you are quite thin, dove. A little too lithe, me thinks.”

Pamela rolled her eyes. 

“So, how’s rehearsal going?”

“Brilliant. I’m so excited,” Tom gushed, his usual, sunny smile over taking his face. “I cannot wait till opening night. Only thing that’d make it better was if you’d be in the audience.”

“I will be. After the holidays.”

“We’ve got a few days off,” Tom said. “For Christmas. Then a two show day for our first day back.”

Tom rolled his eyes, his smile still on. 

“Oh, so I’ll get you for a whole…few hours on the day I arrive?”

“Yes. I can’t believe you’re cutting your holiday with your family short,” Tom said, frowning a little. 

“Not really. We’ve always been a Christmas Eve type family, so the actual day of Christmas was always a recovery type of day, so it’s not that big of a deal. Plus, my flight isn’t until the late afternoon,” Pamela reminded Tom. “And with the B&B, Mom’s always super busy anyways on the day of Christmas.”

“Not Christmas Eve?”

“No. People want to have their celebrations on the actual holiday,” Pamela explained. “So, she does a huge Christmas breakfast and stuff for her guests. Then later that night, as the whole Christmas wine fest that her inn is famous for.”

“And you’ll miss it?”

“I almost always do,” Pamela assured him. “Either I hide at my dad’s or in my room.”

Tom chuckled. “Well, okay. I feel a bit less bad that I’ll be in possession of a jet lagged Pamela for Boxing Day.”

Pamela grinned. “Hey, I do jet lag well.”

“Of course, darling love,” Tom agreed. “Now, when will I be able to speak to this Ryan fellow? Does he have a surname?”

“Er…I bet he does,” Pamela said. “I just can’t remember it. And as soon as you can call me in the afternoon, you can speak to Ryan.”

Tom sighed good naturally. “Alright. Well, I must get some sleep. It’s almost four am. Luckily, I do not have an early call time.”

“Thank god or you’d be screwed,” Pamela said, leaning her head on her hand. “I was surprised you were still awake.”

“I know. I know. I just get so wound up, I can’t seem to get to sleep,” Tom admitted. “Plus, I was hoping you’d be online so I could speak and see you. Always gives me the sweetest dreams.”

Pamela rolled her eyes again, but felt her cheeks go a little pink. Tom grinned. 

“You’re kind of sappy tonight.”

“I’m romantic. There are millions out there who would die for me to say those words to them,” Tom kidded. 

“Yeah, well, how’d you wind up with the least romantic soul on earth, then, Hiddleston?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Tom breezily said. “Wouldn’t trade you for anyone.”

Pamela smiled. “And I’ll keep you, too.”

Tom beamed at her. 

* * *

Two days later, Tom phoned her while she was still at work. She handed her iPhone to Ryan and allowed Tom to FaceTime with him. By the end of the conversation (which was as long as they were still not done yapping at one another when Pamela completed the paperwork for her student she’d hooked that morning), Ryan and Tom were best friends. 

Pamela wondered if she’d created a monster as Ryan spent the rest of the afternoon gushing about Tom like a fangirl. 


End file.
